


it's fate that brought us here

by ajmnyrd



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, andrew is dmitry, heavily based on the musical, modern anastasia au, neil is anastasia, no prior knowledge of anastasia needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajmnyrd/pseuds/ajmnyrd
Summary: Neil Josten has a target painted on his back. Andrew can't figure out who's going to take the bullet.With his luck, probably both of them.(In which there are mysteries of statistical probability, an interesting night club, old ghosts, perhaps a romance, and a lot of money.)





	it's fate that brought us here

**Author's Note:**

> hey! so, first of all, while this is definitely an anastasia au, i don’t think any prior knowledge of anastasia is needed as i write it from beginning to end as a whole story. also, this is based off of anastasia the musical, not the original animated movie. if you love the movie, as i do, i suggest you check out the new broadway musical bc it is phenomenal and i’m still cryin tbh. 
> 
> while its heavily influenced by the musical, there are some major plot differences, particularly including the setting, Kengo/Ichirou and their role in the story, and the number of characters, as i fit in a lot more than there are in the original. it’s definitely a modern anastasia au
> 
> so if you have any questions regarding chapter content, or the logistics of the au/universe, suggestions, comments, corrections, etc, please leave a comment! always appreciated :)

* * *

The scene is chaos; something out of a low-budget horror flick.

It looks as if a tornado has torn through the grand room. Chairs are splintered and tables are overturned. Frames have been ripped off the walls to shatter into a million pieces on the floor, the picture of a perfect family covered in glass and blood—the same blood that is splattered ceiling to floor. Seemingly every surface has been painted with crimson. The three figures inside are covered in it, even the little boy who cowers in a corner of the room.

There are men outside the door, shouting. Having already infiltrated the first floor of the house, they are determined to take the second. They keep coming, relentless in their numbers and force. The perfect family in the picture fight a hopeless battle; they are single survivors against a full army in the warzone of their living room.

The little boy’s father, breathing heavily and gushing blood from his temple, is barricading the door with furniture.

For once, the father is not the biggest threat in the house.

His mother is running around the room, searching for an escape while throwing a look over her shoulder at the door every few seconds. The paranoia she’s always had—or, has always had since she married her husband—has been building up until this exact moment.  _This is it._ This is all the nightmares come true.

The little boy silently watches the two of them carelessly step over bodies that lie crooked and still on the floor. His parents, he thinks absently, are both his two protectors and his two personal demons.  

He’s not a  _baby_ —he’s ten-and-a-half years old, and to some extent, he knows what his father does as a living. He knows about the continuous cycle of death his father creates. He knows his mother stands by in compliance, one hand over her son’s eyes, the other hand curled around a gun. But it seems that this time, his father is not the predator.

He’s the prey.

His mother becomes more jittery as they hear more men storm up the stairs. It is the sound of a death sentence. A small, familiar gun is clutched in her quivering hands. But the boy knows that she does not tremble out of fear. Something a little different, more complicated than that. Anxiety, perhaps. Anticipation.

Suddenly, as if possessed, she whips around and dashes to where her son is waiting in the corner.  _This is it._

She crouches down in front of him. His father barks something, but the boy isn’t listening. With the hand that isn’t holding the pistol, she presses a small object into his soft hand. His trembling fingers—definitely trembling out of fear—close around it, but he doesn’t look. His father yells something else. He doesn’t dare look away from his mother’s fierce eyes.

Her mouth is moving, and belatedly he realizes that she’s repeating all the rules she’s always told him. It’s like watching a bad film where the sound is lagging a few seconds behind. He can’t hold on to a single word she says. His heartbeat picks up as she speaks more frantically.

There’s a loud cracking noise. Everything instantly slows down. The temperature drops ten degrees. His mother, slowly, presses a cold hand to his cheek, no longer shaking. She takes a deep breath, and says, _“Run.”_

Time speeds up again. Suddenly, the boy is sweating and the air around him is suffocating. Bullets rain down on the small family like a hurricane. They find their way through the walls, ripping apart the flowery wallpaper and digging themselves into furniture or bodies—they show no preference. His father’s body jerks with every hit, and as she’s pushing the boy out the window, his mother suffers the same fate. Glass shatters behind him, and there’s a blast of overwhelming heat as the house is lit aflame. Everything is loud in his ears. He’s painfully aware of the bullets that tear through his skin, but his mind is stuffed with cotton. His vision is going black. There aren’t enough lights outside, he can’t see—he’s outside, on the balcony, and he’s climbing off, clambering on the roof, he slips, continues to climb and—

—everything goes completely dark.

 _This is it._  

 

* * *

 

**1.**

Parked comically out of place outside the dingy diner is a sleek black model of a car. Amongst rusted trucks and painfully ordinary small cars, the Maserati sticks out like a gem amidst common rocks. It gleams under the afternoon sun like smooth obsidian. Andrew Minyard watches his car, just a little smug, from inside the diner.

He contemplates what exactly he’s doing here, at this grimy table, in this exact moment. For some reason, he continues to indulge his  _“employer”_ even when he’s perfectly fine on his own. He doesn’t need jobs, he doesn’t need a team, yet here he is, at their usual meeting spot, because Wymack has another bright idea. Andrew, at this point, is practically part of the crew. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, how one simple job turned into an allegiance.

He thinks that maybe he should leave. Quit. Pursue a _normal_ job, maybe even a normal life. Maybe he could buy a normal house in a normal North Carolina suburb with his new steady salary. Obviously he couldn’t, but it’s an interesting concept to consider.

Andrew absently stares at the grimy menu on the table. While a normal life doesn’t sound particularly appealing—truthfully, nothing to Andrew is particularly appealing--he has the urge to burn all of his bridges while he still can. If he still can. (He can’t. He’s loyal to his promises.)

Still, he tells Wymack about the suburban dream, because he is nothing if not an instigator.

The man himself sits across from Andrew, eyeing the menu in his hands with vague disinterest. It’s too late for breakfast, and lunch feels too early, but David Wymack isn’t really someone who would settle for brunch. He’s simpler than that. Andrew, however, plans on ordering a bowl of ice cream, mostly because he can. And because Wymack’s paying.

Wymack scoffs. “Suburbs. You’re a little shit, you know that? Besides, you can’t just stop being a criminal, it’s what you’re good at. And we’re the only people besides your family that will put up with you. _And_ you’d be a terrible neighbor. The Home Owners Association would eat you alive.”

Andrew doesn’t  reply as the waitress comes to take their orders. After the she leaves them (Wymack orders a black coffee), Wymack finally shares the real reason they’re sitting there, as if Andrew hadn’t figured it out already: a new project.

“If you’re serious about the whole ‘burning bridges’ thing, tell me now before I brief you on this because--” Wymack pauses. Andrew looks up at the hesitation; David Wymack does not often hesitate. “It’s a big one.”

Andrew keeps his gaze steady. “I have a promise to Kevin. You know I’m not going anywhere.”

Wymack rolls his eyes. “Of course. How could I forget: you’re an asshole.”

His tone changes: “I’m sure that if you have any connection to the outside world and a working set of eyes, you’ve seen the news about Nathaniel Wesninski.”

The name is a magnet, a force that pulls everyone in. The diner is practically empty, but every pair of eyes glues themselves to David Wymack because he mentioned  _the name_. Andrew does not live under a rock, and he does have functional eyes, so he has heard about the news.

Nathaniel Wesninski, along with his parents and a few bystanders, were brutally gunned down in their mansion in Baltimore. This is not the news, this is common knowledge. The incident happened approximately a decade before. In fact, the ten year anniversary was simply months prior, in September. It was a nation-wide case, partly because the killers escaped and were never discovered, and partly because Nathan Wesninski was a popular and very rich businessman. The gruesome murder of a small, charming family complete with a little boy had sparked outrage in the hearts of good Americans. The media coverage was huge, and their close business partners, the famous Moriyamas, added fuel to the flame by labeling it a tragic loss. Everyone knew about the Wesninski murders, and conspiracy theories ran rampant due to the mysterious case of their ten-year-old son, Nathaniel. Despite his blood being found at the scene, the boy’s body was never recovered.

The news: now, ten years later, every media outlet in the country is buzzing about the new rumor flying around--that Nathaniel, by some miracle, had survived the attack and somehow is living under the radar.

Andrew remembers (because he always remembers) the days after the murders, the documentaries that came out, the conspiracies, the interviews, everything. He had been a kid, and the ordeal hadn’t really mattered to him. He’d had bigger things to worry about. Until now. Until today, during this brunch (if ice cream and coffee could be called brunch).

Wymack continues, not waiting for a response. “This morning, Kengo Moriyama announced to the media that he had been very close with Nathan and Mary, and that if anyone could find Nathaniel and bring him home, the reward would be huge.”

Andrew blinks, immediately seeing where Wymack is going.

“Huge,” he repeats, not bothering to form an actual question.

Wymack nods. “I believe he has it at two million dollars.”

Andrew grunts. Kind of cheap for Kengo Moriyama, but more than Andrew expected—most of their money isn’t clean, he supposes.

Wymack, like the modern-day Robin Hood he is, will scam anyone in order to fund his hand-picked family of second-chances, but will especially go out of his way to hurt the Moriyamas in any way he can. It may be foolish, considering their resources and tendency to murder people (their business empire is their front for their empire in the  _yakuza_ ), but Wymack cannot seem to forgive them for the harm they caused his only son.

His only son, who storms into the small diner just as Andrew thinks of him. Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

“Kevin,” Wymack greets as the devil slides into the booth next to him. Kevin just huffs as a reply, pinching the bridge of his nose as the waitress approaches them. Andrew is almost amused by the dramatics. Almost.  

Wymack accepts his coffee from the waitress, and Andrew immediately starts to dig in to his ice cream. Kevin grimaces at the two of them, but for once keeps his mouth shut. The bags under his eyes say that he’s not in an argumentative mood, a rare blessing. He declines when asked to order something.

“The con,” Wymack says when she leaves, “is this: We find someone either dumb enough or smart enough to pretend to be Nathaniel Wesninski. We prepare them, turn them in, collect the money.” He sips his drink with a half shrug. “It’s not complicated. I wanted you two do it.”

It  _is_ pretty straightforward, but Andrew is a difficult, distrustful person. And Kevin is a coward. And they’re dealing with the  _yakuza_.

“Why us?” Kevin practically whines.

“You’re capable, and I trust you.” Wymack says simply. “I think it’s time to get some money off of those people.”

 _Surprise!_ Wymack’s infamous naivety and optimism has made an appearance. Andrew has no time for it. “No. It’s dangerous.”

Wymack looks at him. “It’s a lot of money.”

“It is the Moriyamas,” Andrew says, pointing his spoon at Kevin, who sinks a little in his seat. “You are suggesting we intentionally create problems with them, despite our previous track record.”

Kevin, wide-eyed, looks at Wymack for what he will say next. Wymack looks Andrew dead in the eyes and says, “You’ve never been opposed to creating problems before.”

And that’s true, Andrew is an instigator at heart, so he concedes that point with a shrug. “It’s still a stupid idea. I do not like unnecessary risks that could compromise my deals.” He gives a significant look to Kevin. When Wymack doesn’t respond, Andrew continues, “What do I get in return?”

“Besides almost twenty thousand dollars? Christ, Andrew.”

Andrew just stares until Kevin pipes up, voice uncertain. “A favor?”

 _A favor._ Andrew scoffs. Kevin, growing a spine. Kevin, so quick to offer a new promise when he’s yet to fulfill his first one. And a  _favor_ —what could Andrew possibly want from him? Kevin, Kevin, Kevin.

But he supposes that it’s fair if Kevin is willing to suck up his pride and offer it. Besides, he’s stopped expecting people to keep their word at this point. He’ll make the deal for the sake of the deal, but he’ll probably never live to see the score even.

So he gives Kevin his most blank, demeaning stare and grudgingly agrees on the condition that he also gets free access to Wymack’s booze at any time. Wymack nods in satisfaction, and begins laying out their task.

 

* * *

 

Andrew, breathless, dodges a quick hit but only barely. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Renee, hands up, bounces a little, waiting to pounce. Her fist glances off of his shoulder, but now she’s open. He delivers a blow to her sternum, only to be suddenly lying flat on his back after a couple of rough movements. He stares up at the fluorescent lights and huffs. Renee enters his view, grinning when she extends a hand to help him up. There’s no one else in the small, brightly lit gym to witness it, but it usually goes like this.

Renee had come by the apartment as Andrew, Kevin, and Aaron were beginning their research on their new project. Nicky, the fourth member of their small group of criminals, was too busy hanging out with Renee’s small group of criminals that Andrew finds they’re beginning to merge with.

He’s still contemplating suburbs.

“Coach told us that you and Kevin were taking on the Wesninski con,” she begins, handing him a water bottle. Andrew is already done with the conversation, but he doesn’t hate Renee, so he responds in kind as he accepts the water bottle.

“It is reckless.”

“I think you might be right. But it does sound like a challenge,” she smiles. They both sit on a bench, side by side, overlooking the colorful mat that they’d just fought on. Or, Renee looks at Andrew and Andrew stares at the mat. “How are you going to find the perfect Nathaniel?”

Andrew shrugs, takes a swig. Their “Nathaniel” will have to look at least a little bit like the old pictures of the boy; it needs to be believable. Some things can be altered, but it’ll be mostly guesswork. Or they find someone that resembles Nathan Wesninski, the father. Normally it would be easier to find some wanna-be actor desperate to show their skills, but whoever does this will have to have at least some sense or they’ll all get killed. Probably.

“You should hold auditions,” Renee chuckles, but there’s truth to her words. They need to begin searching, and soon, or else—

“Have you thought about whether or not the rumors are true? Maybe Nathaniel  _is_ alive.”

“He is dead,” Andrew says, because he has to be. Besides, he remembers the crime scene photos. It would be difficult to escape unscathed. The family was shot and burned alive in the fire immediately after. So if the bullets didn’t kill them, well.

Renee hums. “Would you like to make a wager?”

Andrew glances at her, and narrows his eyes. “No.”

She ignores him. “If the real Nathaniel doesn’t show up within the next few months, I’ll buy you treats.” She’ll buy him treats within the next few months anyway, and they both know it.

“Fine.”

Together, they pack up and walk back to the apartment complex that Andrew and his family live in. It’s only a couple of blocks from the gym, but it’s already dark outside, making it much colder than Andrew is comfortable with. Renee doesn’t seem to mind, because of course she doesn’t. Renee is always the bird with unruffled feathers.

They talk quietly about Kevin, and Wymack, about their different jobs and about hypothetical situations. (Renee is one of the tolerable ones in Wymack’s little group. He met her before she even got involved with Wymack.) The conversation isn’t exactly engaging, but it isn’t boring, and Andrew thinks he might appreciate it.

The apartment building is as ordinary as it gets. A big, brown building with a small parking lot and with plain walls on the inside and too-bright lights, almost like the ones at the gym. Andrew holds the door open for Renee, and she presses the up button on the elevator. Together they ride up in comfortable silence. The elevator dings, the dull doors slide open, and they are almost immediately confronted by Andrew’s family and the rest of the crew, because of course Nicky has to invite everyone over all of the time.

It works like this: there are two apartment complexes less than a block apart, separated mainly by that diner and a small gas station. Andrew lives in the dingy brown building along with his brother, his cousin, and David Wymack. Wymack’s practically-adopted-children (who are all grown adults) live in the other, equally dingy apartment complex; the beige one. According to Andrew, this group consists of Renee and Friends of Renee.

Together the two groups are, for some reason, Wymack’s hand-picked family-slash-crew. All of them with seemingly normal lives, rocky pasts, and a habit of scamming people out of their money in order to fund their future. Wymack may be a Robin Hood, but a very selective Robin Hood with a questionable moral code.

They’re literally criminals--conmen that usually work in pairs or groups, but occasionally work a job that requires all ten of them. Well—nine. They haven’t been able to pull a big con with ten people since Seth’s  _very_ unfortunate overdose.

Andrew pushes past the clump of people lingering around his apartment, leaving Renee behind to be stuck in conversation. For some reason, her friends always end up in his space. Nicky probably invited them all over. Andrew has to lock the liquor cabinet if they haven’t gotten into it already.

Kevin is sitting on the couch when he finally is able to enter his own apartment. His large frame is hunched over, making him seem smaller than he actually is. His expression is pinched as he watches whatever drama is on TV, but his eyes are glassy and they don’t follow any movement on the screen. Andrew slows down to grab the remote that sits on the couch. He changes the channel to the news; Kevin suddenly sits up as if to complain, but deflates at the sight of Kengo Moriyama on the screen.

He’s old, with the little remaining hair on his head completely gray. It must be stressful to be in the Japanese mafia. Andrew knows that Kengo isn’t older than sixty, but he hasn’t aged well. A microphone is shoved into his face, and he seems to be sticking to the same story he’s been repeating all week.

The broken record player repeats again: “I am the closest thing to family Nathaniel has. If anyone finds him, I ask to reunite him with the only family he has left.”  

Kevin’s mouth twists. “That’s not necessarily true. He still has family on his mother’s side. I don’t know why they aren’t speaking up.”

Andrew doesn’t know why it matters, but he still says, “I thought the uncle was missing.” Some of the early interviews and TV specials featured Mary Wesninski’s brother, but not much after that. The man practically vanished just a couple years after the crime.

Kevin nods stiffly. “That’s true.” On the TV, a reporter performs a rushed interrogation. Kevin sighs, still looking uneasy, but turns his gaze to Andrew. “We start tomorrow. We have no more time to waste.”

Andrew glares, instinctively wanting to defy him, (because he can,) but for once in his life Kevin’s right. “Tomorrow.”

Kevin glances back at Kengo on the TV, nodding solemnly.

Kengo says, “There is some truth to all rumors. I hope he is watching this today.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! this is not only my first work for aftg its also my first fic in a Really long time so.....any feedback is always appreciated :) spam me on tumblr @ ajmnyrd


End file.
